by Jan Watson
Darcy scarce could take it in. She was a wife in every way. Had any woman ever felt more loved than she did at this moment? On tiptoes she kissed him back. “I will love you forever, Henry. All I ever want is your happiness.”
Making their way to a bent-willow bench, they sat together looking out over the train tracks. Gaslight illuminated their little corner of the world.
“I love this,” Darcy said, “being here with you.”
“What else do you love?”
“You mean besides you? Well, let’s see, I love me a strong cup of coffee in the morning. And I like rain but not storms.” Henry put his arm across the back of the bench, and she nestled under it. “I love the heft of an uncut bolt of fabric and a card of buttons.” She thought for a moment, looking up at him from under his arm. “You know those pretty early summer flowers, irises? Mammaw calls them flags. I love the scent of iris. That’s about it, I guess.”
Henry tightened his arm around her. My, but it felt good to be with him. She wished they could stay here forever—grow old on this bench.
“Darcy . . .” Henry jumped up and paced a minute before stopping and staring at her. “I need to tell you something.”
Darcy stood to face him. “Oh, it’s okay. I already know. I’m not bothered in the least.”
Henry appeared startled. “How could you know?”
The platform was empty, so she brazenly slipped her arms around her husband’s waist and buried her face in his chest. “I don’t mind being Mrs. Jones in our hotel room. It’s the name on our license that counts.”
He groaned as he lifted her off her feet. “You make me wish I were a better man.”
The only thing that marred Darcy’s happiness in the two days they spent in the town outside of Chicago was Henry’s nervousness. He was always glancing over his shoulder or pulling aside a curtain to gaze out the window, like a man being watched. Otherwise, their time there was the happiest of Darcy’s life.
“Can’t we stay here?” she asked Henry on their last morning, interrupting his reverie at the window.
Henry let the curtain fall and took her in his arms. “I have business in Chicago. Important business.”
She leaned back in his arms and studied his face, so dear and familiar to her now.
“Can I trust you?” he asked.
Hurt, she replied, “I’m surprised you need to ask me that. I’m your wife; that should stand for something.”
In that way of his, he tipped her chin and looked into her eyes. “You may not like what I’m going to ask of you. You may be sorry you ever married me.”
“Never,” she responded, though fear coursed through her body. “Just tell me quick.”
Henry started pacing again, then went to the window and peered around the curtain. It made her want to scream in frustration. His back was to her when he began to talk. “When we get to the city, I will have to leave you for a while—a week, maybe two at the most. I know a safe place you can stay. You’ll like it there.”
“But, Henry . . .”
Turning around, he raised his hand palm out, like he was speaking to a child. “Darcy, don’t. Please don’t question me.”
Darcy wasn’t sorry she married Henry, but she was ever so sorry they had to leave the town where she had become his bride. Her husband was a serious man. That would take some getting used to. That he needed them to be separate for a while was alarming and conjured up all sorts of disasters in Darcy’s creative mind: Henry was ill and didn’t want her to face a deathbed scene. Or—and this made her pulse beat fast—he kept a mistress tucked away in an apartment in Chicago. Darcy could feel heat rise in her face as she walked to the train with her husband of two days. If he had another lover and Darcy found out, there would be a deathbed scene. Darcy would see to that.
“What’s your rush?” Henry said. “We have plenty of time before our train leaves.”
Henry carried her stuffed valise and two pretty hatboxes. The saddlebags were slung across his shoulder. On one of their walks about town they had discovered a dress shop. Darcy drooled over the fashion displayed on a mannequin in the window. Henry insisted on buying the exact outfit in her size plus two new hats. No wonder he couldn’t keep up.
Darcy adored the round boxes. One was pink with a green grosgrain ribbon that tied across the top, and the other was a sophisticated navy blue with a beige lid.
“Let me help,” she said, reaching for her traveling bag.
“No,” he insisted, though he sat her belongings down while he moved the saddlebags from one shoulder to the other. “Your things are not heavy—just a little awkward is all.”
Darcy cocked her head and looked him over. Something wasn’t right. The saddlebags were not as full as they had been. “Henry! Did you remember to get your packets from the hotel safe?”
His face blanched white as a sheet. He unloaded again beside a gas lamp. “See what you do to me,” he called as he sprinted away. “You make me forget my head.”
Darcy relaxed a little as she waited. Henry’s mind seemed to be only on her. She didn’t think she needed to worry. She just needed to trust.
CHAPTER 27
A WEEK LATER it was Darcy Mae Thomas who pulled back a velvet drape and peered out the window like she had seen Henry do. Beyond the smudged glass was a crowded sidewalk where people scurried about, busy as ants.
She sneezed before she could get her hankie out. Thankfully, she was the only person in the parlor at the moment. The other women who took rooms here in Mrs. Oldham’s Respectable House for Young Ladies were always sizing her up. She’d heard them mimic her accent, knew they talked behind her back. Fingering the thick fabric, she noted the dust caught in the folds and sneezed again.
At least Mrs. Oldham was kind, and Darcy had found a position as a seamstress at a tailor’s shop around the corner. It wasn’t like she had to work, not like the other girls. Henry had already paid for her room and board, but she couldn’t stand to sit around the house all day wondering when he would be back.
She tucked the handkerchief deep in her pocket and withdrew the gold ring Henry had put on her finger the day they wed. There were their initials HT and DW twined together by a prettily scribed vine. Darcy chanced to put it on. It broke her heart when Henry told her to take it off—that their marriage was a secret for now. He said she would understand in time. She didn’t like it one bit, but she would do anything for Henry.
A tear tracked down her cheek, and she dashed it away before secreting her wedding band in her pocket again. She missed Henry so bad it hurt, and she was full of longing to see her mammaw. Before he went away, on whatever business was keeping him from her, Henry made her promise to keep their affairs to herself. That part wasn’t so hard, for she hadn’t a clue what they were doing in Chicago. He would be back soon, though. He had promised. For Henry she could wait.
Bored, Darcy wandered about the parlor, careful not to stir up any more dust. It was Saturday. She got Saturday and Sunday off, but she would rather be working. It was different, sewing men’s trousers and jackets, not nearly as much fun as making fancy gowns for Mrs. Upchurch and her friends. Darcy was learning. Even though she’d worked for the owner of the shop for only three days, Mr. Mark frequently commented on her fine stitching. That was probably why the other girls in the house didn’t like her. They worked there too and surely didn’t like Darcy being singled out for praise, especially since they’d been employed much longer than she had.
Fortunately, Bridgett, who shared Darcy’s room, wasn’t like the others. She was sweet and shy with a freckled face and a tumble of dark hair. But Darcy couldn’t understand a word Bridgett said. And it didn’t seem Bridgett could understand Darcy either. They were foreigners to each other. At night after lights-out, Darcy could hear Bridgett’s muffled sobs, and she was sure Bridgett could hear hers. Being homesick was a language they could both understand.
She found Bridgett in their room in front of a lady’s desk. The writing surface was pulled down,
and Bridgett was bent over her work. She waved a piece of stationery back and forth to dry the ink. “Jibberey jabberer jab,” she said, or so it sounded to Darcy.
“You’re writing a letter?”
“Momma,” Bridgett said with the prettiest smile.
Darcy got that for sure. She watched as Bridgett folded the letter around some dollar bills. After addressing an envelope, she sealed the flap with mucilage from a small brown bottle. Standing, Bridgett reached for her hat, then pulled on white gloves. “Postage officer.” She smiled at Darcy. “We go?”
“Post office,” Darcy said. “Sure, I’d love to go with you.”
It was a pretty late summer day. It wasn’t as easy to discern the coming of fall here in the city. Tall buildings, bustling streets, vendors hawking their wares—from the boy with his newspapers to the man selling pretzels from a cart—all combined to shut out the subtle blend of one season with another. With a pang Darcy thought of how the mountains would announce the coming change. The trees would whisper, “Here it comes; here it comes,” as the leaves turned jeweled colors of red, gold, and orange. The mornings would beckon coolly for sweaters and long-sleeved shirts. The air would smell of apples and ripening persimmons, stirring your taste buds, making you long for hot biscuits dripping with fruit butter.
“Scuse peas,” Bridgett said when she bumped against a man whose arms were laden with brown paper packages.
“Watch where you’re going,” the man groused and hurried on.
Darcy drew Bridgett away from the foot traffic to a table at a sidewalk café. She snapped her change purse open and paid for two fizzy cola drinks over Bridgett’s protest. “My treat,” she said.
As soon as they were seated with the delicious icy treats, a fit of giggling overtook Darcy. “Bridgett,” she said, when she got hold of herself, “say ‘Excuse me, please.’”
“Scuse me peas.”
“Ex,” Darcy said with an exaggerated mouth. “Excuse. Excuse me.”
With a look of concentration Bridgett replied, “Es scuse?”
“Very good.” Ice rattled in the glass as Darcy finished her cola. “We’d better get to the post office. I think it closes at noon on Saturdays.”
Bridgett’s forehead crinkled. She checked the clock on the bank building across the street. “Time going.”
“Exactly.” Darcy nodded as she linked her arm with Bridgett’s. “We can practice your English while we walk.”
As they headed down the street, Darcy bumped Bridgett with her hip. “Oh,” she said, “excuse me, please.”
“You peas excused,” Bridgett said.
Darcy laughed all the way to the post office.
While Bridgett posted her letter, Darcy entertained herself by perusing an assortment of scenic postal cards. She chose four and laid them side by side for a better look. My, they were pretty. Maybe she would send one to Mammaw. Surely Henry wouldn’t mind if she sent her a little note.
She selected two cards, one to keep and one to mail, then dug in her small purse for pennies. She wouldn’t write anything specific, just that they were wed and that she’d be home soon. And she wouldn’t put Mrs. Oldham’s return address on the card; that way she could write to Mammaw and please Henry at the same time.
Using the fountain pen and blotting paper set out for such a purpose, Darcy carefully printed a note to Mammaw. Someone would have to read it to her since she was so poorly, probably Ace or Cara. Darcy wasn’t sure if Remy could read. But it was okay; everyone could enjoy it that way.
Darcy grinned as she walked back to their lodgings with Bridgett. She could just see Mammaw’s smile when she heard Darcy’s words from so far away. She took Bridgett’s hand and swung it with her own, carefree for the moment. “Let’s go to the park and feed the ducks. Want to?”
Bridgett nodded. “We go ducks?”
“Yes,” Darcy said, happy for the first time since Henry left, “we go ducks.”
Across town, Henry’s mood was dark. He hadn’t had a good night’s rest since the night on the train with Darcy. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the fated tomahawk turning end over end as it catapulted through the air. Twice he’d wakened from nightmares in which he’d seen old man Follett’s eyes judging him over Ace’s fallen body. Relieved, he’d think, It’s a dream—just a dream, until finding himself in a strange bed brought back every single grain of truth in the thing he had done.
After leaving Darcy at Mrs. Oldham’s, he had traveled across town to find lodging of his own. He’d spent the first few days secreting his money in various banks—not too much in one place. He was careful not to raise suspicion. Although it was hard, he stayed away from Darcy. Women were a man’s downfall; he’d witnessed that more than once. He questioned his own motives for bringing her with him.
It was the guilt and the fear, he supposed. After the accident with Ace, he’d gone back to his office for his money and for Daisy, meaning to hightail it out of town unencumbered by any other thing. But he couldn’t keep his mind off Darcy. Unlike his usual, well-planned motives, he’d let his need rule his heart. Darcy had come tearing out of the house and thrown herself into his arms. He had stood for the longest time breathing in the scent of her. She was so sweet, so innocent, and it felt so right to have her in his embrace. Somehow just being with her made things seem bearable.
“Get your things,” he’d said against his better judgment.
Of course all she wanted was the license and a ring. And to his surprise he wanted to marry as much as she did. There was something irresistible about her need of him. No, that was not it. It was her love that he couldn’t easily walk away from. If he had ever had a doubt that she loved him fully, it was erased when she agreed to stay in the boardinghouse alone. “Don’t cling,” he’d had to tell her when he left her on the porch. “Act like I’m your brother.”
But it had to be. Henry still might have to leave her to save himself. He felt like a fool and a coward, but he was not about to give up everything he had worked so hard for. Yes, he might lose the opportunity to reclaim his grandfather’s land—that waited to be seen. He might need to head out west and start over. If so, he would go alone.
There was just one thing to do. Henry had to go back home and scout around, find out what was what. If no one had tied him to the death of Ace Shelton, then he and Darcy could return. If things were bad, Henry would have to leave Darcy. He would have no choice. He would be much too easy to track with a woman in tow. It would hurt her, he knew, and his heart sank at the thought, but he wasn’t going to prison for love. He’d tucked a packet with plenty of money in her valise. She was a smart girl. She’d find her way home.
His mind made up, he journeyed back to Kentucky. Traveling by train and coach, he got as close as the foothills. Once there, he secured a horse from a livery station and bought some necessities along with coffee, jerky, canned beans, and a blanket roll. Traveling by night, he made it home in record time. If home was a camp with no more comfort than a thin blanket on hard ground, that was.
As soon as he’d arrived in Chicago, he’d shaved his mustache and let his beard grow. He wore a flop-brimmed hat pulled down low over his eyes, scuffed boots, overalls, and a shirt two sizes too big. Purposely, he dug his hands in soil, leaving his nails broken and dirty. He certainly didn’t look like a well-paid lawyer anymore. For two days, in this disguise, he haunted neighboring towns, ferreting out any news he could get. Men talked—especially if it was about something out of the ordinary—and they seemed to find the assault on Ace Shelton way out of the ordinary.
Late the second night, in a dark and smoky tavern, Henry nursed a shot of whiskey and listened to the prattle.
“Well, I heard a bear was chasing him and he fell off a cliff,” one guy offered. “You know the woods up there are plumb full of bears and panthers too.”
“Wasn’t Ace Shelton the fellow who had that still?” another said. “The one where that man got shot years ago?”
The first man swirled his wh
iskey before downing it with one gulp. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Lump Lumpkin went to the hoosegow over that. Shame. Ace and Lump made the finest corn liquor I ever drank. Smooth as springwater.”
“Maybe Ace set up another still,” the second fellow said while motioning the bartender over. “Maybe he was kilt over it.”
The other man studied the possibility as the bartender splashed amber-colored liquor in his glass. “Could be, I reckon, though I heard Ace had found the Lord.”
A third man, who was listening as intently as Henry himself, chimed in. “You both got it wrong. I hear tell the sheriff is fixing to arrest that wife of his. Wasn’t she a Whitt?”
The first two men turned the third man’s way. Henry pulled his hat a notch lower but kept looking their way.
“Yeah, she’s Herbert and Fairy Mae’s granddaughter as I recollect,” the second man said. “But that’s a stretch, ain’t it?”
The third man crossed his arms and leaned on the bar. “I knew Dance Shelton years ago. She’s a fey one. Always was stranger than a two-headed cat.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “You know the sheriff’s deputy is my wife’s sister’s mother-in-law’s third cousin twice removed. It was the sister’s mother-in-law that gave my wife the rundown on what the sheriff told his deputy. Who is my wife’s sister’s—”
“Yeah, yeah,” the second man said. “So what about Ace’s wife getting arrested?”
“Word is she split his head open with an ax. They found the ax on the kitchen table, dripping Ace’s blood.”
The men shook their heads and sipped their drinks.
“You never can tell,” one said.
“That’s for sure,” another replied. “Think I’ll get on home to the old lady.”
“Good idea,” the first man said. “Say, was that your wife I saw sharpening her hatchet today?”
